Sunday was one of those Sundays. I had three photoshoots booked — trying to get in the last few days of shooting outside before my potential clients will be too bundled up under snowsuits and hats and mitts to pose for the camera. My partner in life was off partnering with his friends in Cleveland on the floor at the football game. So, working and single parenting, basically.

Also, there was that whole Josh’s 12th birthday business.

I had a whole day planned out filled with cake and a restaurant dinner and a trip to EB Games and a movie and birthday socks and well, it was going to be a special day for my boy.

Until he went and pulled a Bobby Draper.

You know, traded his mom’s sandwich for candy on the school farm trip. 

Only worse.

Of course, there were no actual sandwiches involved, but I was feeling like I needed some sunglasses and a scowl to go with my feeeeeeeeelings.

And then there was some awesome judgement from the peanut gallery about how I was handling my son’s birthday and I was THISCLOSE to becoming Betty Draper Francis and retreating to my fainting couch but then I was all

LET’S TURN THIS DAY AROUND YOU GUYS. (And not just because I wanted to eat cake.)

And I did.

And we did.

And there were apologies. And trips to EB Games and restaurant dinners — complete with public and loud singing of Book of Mormon songs — and movies and cake.

And suddenly I was the best mom in the world and had made it the best birthday ever, even though I had to work and do it on my own.

Until his dad came home at almost midnight. Then I was chopped liver.

But at least I wasn’t Betty Draper.